


blue hour

by bombcollar



Category: Splatoon
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Insomnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 16:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17491190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombcollar/pseuds/bombcollar
Summary: Mask is a solitary person.





	blue hour

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place around the king's cup tournament.  
> credit to CureAdelie on twitter for proofreading and ideas (particularly Mask's sister)

"Do a... face reveal?" He chuckles hollowly. "I don't know... Maybe someday. If I can get a million subs, maybe I'll do a face reveal, hm?"

The monitor shines cold and blue, reflected in the acrylic lenses of the gas mask, turning them into blank ovals. It's the only light in the room other than the digital clock reading out some ungodly hour of the morning. Keyboard clicks and his own breathing rattling in his ears. The stream chat flashes by. He only reads the comments sometimes, but people keep talking.

* * *

Another ungodly morning hour, but not the same one as before. The city light pollution does little to wash out the pitch black of the sky. This corner store is only a block from his apartment, so he goes here all the time when there's nothing left in the fridge that's edible.

"Don't you ever take that thing off?" The clerk asks him. She's an anemone, her bubble-tipped fronds dyed a lurid shade of purple. He knows her. She works the night shift often, but not always. Sometimes it's a teenage tiger prawn, studs set into the chitin plates of his shell. The prawn never asks questions.

"I have allergies."

"To what, cellophane?"

Mask looks at her, a plastic-wrapped sandwich in his hand. It's shredded tuna and mayo. Same thing he got yesterday. "Yes."

* * *

 "Why are you guys always asking me to take my mask off? Are you new here? You should know that isn't how it works..."

Another late-night stream in the near-silence of his bedroom. Chat flickers by. Mask narrows his eyes behind the cloudy lenses. "You don't come here for my face." A breathy huff. "You come here for my... brilliant commentary." He chuckles, then coughs. The noise is made hoarse and hollow by the filter. His throat feels scratchy. Maybe he's getting a cold.

"Do I have a match tomorrow? Yes. I'm not worried about it though... I always perform best under pressure. It's boring if it's too predictable..."

* * *

The stands above his head vibrate with the movement of tournament guests finding their seats. Soon his team will be up. He should be watching, studying the competition along with the rest of the S4, but he has a call to take. He holds the phone to his ear, sitting with his knees tucked up to his chest.

"Yes, I'm excited too... No, I feel fine." He pauses to listen, covering his other ear with his hand. It's too warm under here, his skin is slick, the air itself hums in anticipation. "I promise, I took my meds this morning..." Another pause. He wishes his own breathing wasn't so loud. "Already? Okay. Talk to you later." His sister's lunch break would be ending soon, but she reassured him she'd catch the stream once she got home that night. He knew she would, but someday she'd see him compete him in person, she promised. Someday. Maybe next year.

* * *

 Mask curses under his breath as his character dies another bloody death. The chat responds with a wave of F's, until he respawns. He's quiet as he focuses on getting past this difficult section, hunched up on his computer chair like a gargoyle with an old blanket thrown over his shoulders.

"...you don't have to apologize," he murmurs. "We lost because we didn't work together well. I don't feel bad about it."

A pause. He licks his dry lips, unseen. Messages of sympathy scroll by.

"Do I ever sleep?" He scoffs. "Maybe. But it wouldn't be an exciting stream at all if I was just laying in bed..."

A screen name with a star next to it pops up. One of his chat mods. He'd assigned the role to all the members of cyan team, even though they weren't often awake at the same time he was streaming.

 **FULLM00N** : go to bed or else

Mask rolls his eyes. "I'll sleep when I'm done playing."

 **FULLM00N** : it's 4 in the morning you dummy

"Yeah? You're awake too. What's your excuse...?" Moon doesn't say anything for several minutes, and he imagines she probably did the sensible thing and went to bed herself. They had practice scheduled for tomorrow, but he doesn't feel up to it. If he was already going to feel like garbage in the morning, a few more hours of wakefulness wouldn't hurt.

Another starred message flashes on the screen.

 **FULLM00N** : warned you

"Hm?" She wasn't asleep after all? He's about to respond when the door to his bedroom creaks open. He turns his head but before he can react, Moon rushes in and grabs him under the arms, yanking him out of his rolling chair. As it spins lazily on its leftover momentum, her bleary shadow can be seen in the background, throwing him into bed. She tosses his blankets on top of him, and while he squirms around trying to free himself, she leans over the desk to peer into the camera. The screen's reflection in her glasses turns her eyes into high-beam headlights. She grins toothily, as if they'd all planned this together.

"Moon..." Mask sounds miffed, his voice muffled by his distance from the microphone. Moon turns back to him, shoving the chair aside and climbing onto the bed. Chat messages come rapidly one after another, too quickly to read, not that either of them could have done so from that distance. Some amused, some puzzled, others pointing out that she was a member of his team, dipshit, don't you know anything?

Mask says something else but he speaks too quietly for the microphone to pick it up. Moon does the same, and they carry on a quiet conversation for a short while. Mask's head dips, his shoulders slumping, and Moon puts her arms around him. After a moment he does the same, chin resting on her shoulder. They stay that way until Mask reaches up to begin undoing the straps of his gas mask. Moon slips off the bed, grabs the mouse and, as he begins to pull the mask off, ends the stream with a click.

* * *

 _You've really gotta sleep,_ she says.

_I can't..._

_Why not? Your fans aren't gonna get mad at you._

_It's not that. Lying awake in the dark is lonely... It's better if there's someone to talk to._

* * *

 Late morning sunlight trickles in through his blackout curtains. Mask stirs, rolling over onto his back. Moon lies on her side, half her limbs dangling off the edge of his twin mattress, still in the street clothes she'd been wearing last night.

"Moon..." He nudges her with his elbow. "...you wanna get breakfast?"

Yawning hugely, she stretches, narrowly avoiding smacking him with her fist as she stretches her arm above his face. "Mm, sounds good... I gotta warn you, though. And your wallet. I got a big appetite and I'm thinking about pancakes."

Mask almost never bought food anywhere that wasn't the corner store, but he nods, pawing for where he'd laid his gas mask the night before. "I'll consider myself warned..."

"I always make good on my threats. That's why I'm your right-hand squid."

It was. Mask chuckles to himself. So odd to hear the sound without that filter, it almost surprises him.


End file.
